Letters at 4 AM
by Lorien-Eve
Summary: Ron wants to tell Harry about his true feelings and he finds that writing is the best way for him to express himself.


Harry curled himself up on his four-poster bed and placed a piece of parchment in his lap. He was writing to Sirius, as he did almost weekly, always eager to send his own letters and even more eager to get replies. The dorm was quiet, with the other four boys sleeping soundly, he assumed. Hours before, they had been down in the common room, wasting the ideal homework times on other, more productive things, such as flirting with girls or even each other.  
  
Harry always looked forward to finding time by himself. Those times were few and far between, especially lately, what with Dean and Seamus staking claim to the dorm whenever they felt the urge, and subsequently kicking out the other people who tried to sleep there. Neville tried to sleep regardless, but was nevertheless awakened at all hours of the night by strange gasps and grunts, and Ron would venture over to Harry's bed to borrow his extra pillow when the noise became too distracting.  
  
When he wasn't writing to Sirius, Harry was busy with his other obligations - writing adequate essays for Snape, who continued to give him bad marks just because he was the professor and it was his duty to fail every Gryffindor he ever taught; flipping through pages of Magical history and realizing that it was just as boring as it had sounded coming from Professor Binns' translucent mouth; and attending Quidditch practice daily and rehearsing the same dives and dodges over and over again because Oliver Wood thought the team needed improvement.  
  
These times, when the dorm room, and for all Harry knew, the whole castle, was silent, were his most enjoyable and most looked forward to. It was only during this quiet time that he could write to his godfather, sending him news from the outside world, and even small fragments from his own inside world.  
  
He penned a few sentences, detailing the atrocities Snape had unleashed on him and most of the rest of his House before taking away almost every point they had earned so far this year. He asked Sirius if he would sneak into Hogwarts again and attack Snape while he was sleeping and defenseless. Nothing would make him happier than to see a bloody, mutilated Potions Master lying across a teacher's desk, his blank eyes wide with fear and fury.  
  
Just as he was putting his delightful daydream down on parchment, the shadowed curtains on his bed were pulled back. Harry jumped, completely lost in his thoughts and not expecting the interruption. When he saw red hair, freckles, and a sheepish smile, he smiled back and laid the parchment on the sheets next to him.  
  
Normally, he would've handed over his extra pillow without question and Ron would've taken it, sleepily and silently back to his own bed. Tonight, though, Dean and Seamus were uncharacteristically quiet. Harry wondered if they had had a fight.  
  
"Whatcha need, Ron?" he asked.  
  
Ron shrugged his shoulders, and for a second, his too-long arms appeared to coincide with his too-tall frame. "I heard your quill scratching against the paper, and wondered what you were up to."  
  
"Just writing to Sirius," Harry said.  
  
"Got an extra bottle of ink?"  
  
"Sure." Harry slid open the top drawer of the small table next to his bed. "You can use it if you want."  
  
"Thanks," said Ron, his hand disappearing momentarily to retrieve the ink. He took the bottle, but sat back down on the side of Harry's bed. He sighed and his shoulders slumped.  
  
"Do you need anything else?" Harry asked, noticing the change in his best friend.  
  
"I need a roll of parchment."  
  
Again, Harry gestured to the drawer beside him. Ron pulled out a slightly yellowed, perfectly rolled sheet of parchment. "I need a quill."  
  
Harry picked up his own quill that he had discarded on his sheets. He didn't have an extra one, like he did with the ink and the parchment. "Here, use mine."  
  
Ron stared at him for a moment, looking both scared and confused. Without taking his eyes off Harry, he reached for the quill and took it into his hand. Lowering his eyes, he focused on the parchment spread crookedly across his knee. He wrote carefully and thoughtfully, and Harry could tell it was much slower than his normal, hurried scribbling. Once he was finished, he passed the parchment over to Harry.  
  
There's something I need to tell you.  
  
"You can talk to me, you know," Harry said, curling his legs up and shuffling over so that Ron could fill the space next to him.  
  
Ron scooted back until he was resting against the headboard, then shoved his legs under the covers. Instead of answering, he nodded to the paper in Harry's hand, instructing him to use it as a means of silent communication.  
  
Harry was taken by surprise, not knowing what was making Ron so peculiar. He was willing to help out, if he could, so he wrote back:  
  
What is it? You know we can talk about anything.  
  
Ron took the parchment and quill, and in a few seconds, he had written:  
  
This isn't something you're expecting. Don't be mad.  
  
Harry didn't know what Ron was playing at, but apparently he wanted to keep the discussion going with written correspondence. Harry took the quill and parchment and wrote his reply.  
  
I've learned to expect the unexpected. I won't be mad, I promise.  
  
He handed the parchment to Ron. When Harry got it back, it said:  
  
I think I'm in love.  
  
Harry honestly didn't know why this would supposedly make him upset. Ron was his best friend, and if he was in love, Harry was glad he was the first to know about it.  
  
Who's the lucky girl?  
  
Ron wrote:  
  
There's not.  
  
Harry was even more confused.  
  
There's not what?  
  
Ron's response was:  
  
There's not a girl.  
  
Harry was uneducated in a lot of ways, but he knew that if Ron wasn't in love with a girl, it had to be a guy.  
  
Right, sorry. Who's the lucky bloke?  
  
Harry, are you blind?  
  
Yeah, but I wear glasses so my vision isn't too bad.  
  
Ron sighed loudly. Through the shadowed darkness, Harry saw him put his head in his hands, his fingers causing his hair to stand on end.  
  
I'd get those lenses checked if I were you. But forget the rest of it. I'll see you in the morning.  
  
With ignorance and a slow hand, Harry wrote:  
  
My vision is fine. If you don't like my frames, just say so. 'Night, Ron.  
  
Ron wrote his reply and sat the parchment back on the small table next to Harry's bed. He closed the curtains and climbed back into his own bed. Harry picked up the parchment and read:  
  
I think your frames are perfect.  
  
****  
  
Harry was confused about the conversation, or lack thereof, from the night before, but as the hours of his day were filled with the usual lessons, homework, and Slytherin threats, there wasn't enough spare time for him to think on it. Ron seemed a little quieter than usual, but not obviously so. Harry was sure he was the only one to notice. Neither of them brought up the past night's discussion, and Harry assumed the topic was set aside, perhaps to be brought up at another curious time, or even filed away, forgotten and unimportant, like some insoluble mystery.  
  
That evening, Harry was sitting in the buzzing common room, in his favorite cushy chair next to the fireplace. His Transfiguration book was open on his lap, and through the dancing light from the fire, he learned more about animating inanimate objects. It was fairly advanced magic, for students anyway, and Professor McGonagall wanted the chapter read thoroughly before attempting to educate the class with a practical lesson.  
  
A small, unevenly torn piece of paper fluttered down from above his right shoulder, covering up the last few sentences of the paragraph he was currently reading. Harry looked up quickly to see who the dispatcher had been, but the room was so crowded, he couldn't tell. Fred and George were just a few feet behind him, but they were talking excitedly with Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson. Seamus was sitting over to his right, but he seemed much too busy with Dean to take the time to deliver a note.  
  
Curiously, he picked up the paper. It was folded hastily, with the crease breaking up the writing at an odd angle. He recognized the writing instantly as Ron's.  
  
If you want to know, just ask.  
  
This made absolutely no sense. What did Harry want to know? Granted, he would've liked to know lots of things: like why Snape's hatred singled him out above all the other students, why Voldemort wanted to hunt him down and kill him, and why the house elves always made meat loaf for lunch on Tuesdays.  
  
He doubted that Ron would have the answers to any of those questions. Well, maybe the one about the meat loaf. Ron had been sneaking down to the kitchens a lot lately, and Harry was sure Dobby would give him the head's up on that one.  
  
Harry's eyes scanned the room for Ron. He was sitting with Hermione at one of the circular tables, books and parchment rolls spread out before them like a detailed map of the world. He looked studious for a change, seemingly interested in whatever it was that Hermione was pointing out to him in the pages of a nearby book.  
  
For whatever reason, Ron apparently still wanted to continue this secretive correspondence. Harry tore a corner out of his Transfiguration book and wrote back.  
  
I'm not sure what it is I'm supposed to ask about, but I'd like to know.  
  
He passed by Ron and Hermione and casually dropped the note down on the book in front of them. Hermione looked up at him strangely, probably irritated at the disruption. Ron's eyes never left the open pages, and Harry walked back to his seat by the fire. He watched as Ron picked up the note and unfolded it. Hermione was craning her neck, trying to see what was more important than her tutoring. Ron wrote something down on a slip of paper, and caught Neville as he walked by their table. He stuck the note in Neville's hand, and a few seconds later, Neville was standing next to Harry.  
  
"Ron asked me to give you this." He shrugged and handed Harry the folded letter.  
  
Here we go again.  
  
If Harry had been confused before, he was perfectly baffled by this latest installment. He was getting slightly annoyed, and wished Ron would just come out and tell him what it was that he thought Harry ought to know.  
  
What are you talking about?  
  
Harry motioned for Neville, and gave him the paper with instructions to send it back to Ron. Ron read the letter and wrote back, giving it to Neville again. Neville sighed and looked a little uncomfortable.  
  
"I'm not an owl, you know," he said on his return trip, depositing the note in Harry's lap.  
  
"Sorry," Harry said apologetically, picking up the slip of paper.  
  
Later.  
  
That was it. Just 'later.' No further explanation. Harry sighed and placed the note in the pocket of his robes. Whatever it was, Ron wasn't telling him just yet, and he figured that 'later' would come soon enough. He returned to his studies, reading about the Inaimatus Conjurus spell and the effects it had on invertebrates.  
  
****  
  
As it turned out, 'later' was indeed later that night. Very late, in fact. It was the time of night when hollow beasts creep out from their caves and cast ominous shadows on the wall that are only chased away by the lighting of a lamp or candle; when nightmares are broken down into only bad dreams, before being replaced entirely by visions of bright sunlight and cloudless skies; when the softness of the moon is questioned by the harshness of the sun. But Harry was lost in sleep, and unaware of any creeping or sneaking going on around him. It was a light hand on his shoulder that woke him.  
  
Ron stood at his bed, the beams of moonlight hitting his hair in a strange way, giving the illusion of him wearing a burnished tinfoil tiara. He presented Harry with yet another piece of paper, though this one was larger than the others and without the creases.  
  
Harry sat up and grabbed his glasses from the table next to his bed. Angling the note just right, the light from the moon illuminated the writing enough for him to make out the words.  
  
It's you.  
  
He looked up at Ron, but his expression was illegible. Harry didn't understand. What was him? He was frustrated over this narrative game Ron was playing, and he didn't appreciate being woken up from what little sleep he was lucky enough to get.  
  
"Would you tell me what you're on about?" he hissed, trying to whisper but not being completely successful.  
  
Ron shook his head, and with a pointing finger, gestured to the parchment.  
  
Would you please tell me what you're on about? Harry wrote the words he had just spoken and shoved the parchment back into Ron's hands.  
  
Ron sat down on the edge of the bed, dragging away part of the cover with the shifting of the mattress.  
  
The one I'm in love with. It's you.  
  
Not even the darkness could hide Harry's surprise as he read those words. Ron was in love with him? Was that even possible? They were best friends, sure, but love? Harry had never thought about stuff like that before. And with Ron...  
  
I don't get it.  
  
That was the best response Harry could come up with. He heard a thousand thoughts sounding off in his head, fighting against one another for the honor of becoming written words, but he couldn't unscramble them fast enough to recognize them separately.  
  
Ron wrote his reply, and with shaking, freckled arms, handed the parchment back to Harry.  
  
I can show you.  
  
Harry looked up and saw Ron. It wasn't like he was seeing him for the first time. It was like he had been looking at him for years. There was no change in him. He was the same lanky, red-haired, awkward boy that Harry had always known. The change was in Harry's perception, the messages his eyes sent to his brain, and the replies that his brain sent to his heart. His eyes saw a past, a present, and a future, all combined into one person, one image. His brain responded with a promise of happiness and security. His heart said 'you love him, you always have.'  
  
"Ron..."  
  
It was just a name, but with that one word, Harry was letting go and giving in, graciously accepting the silent offer of a life and a love he had never been aware of before. He reached for Ron's hand, and ignoring the taste of fear, slid his fingers between warm, inviting ones that conformed perfectly to the shape of his own. 


End file.
